


Transformation

by earthtoalley



Series: 30 Days of Writing [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthtoalley/pseuds/earthtoalley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because Meg was the one thing that would have made all this worth it. He was supposed to be her unicorn, and he’d even screwed that up."</p>
<p>Drabble for the 30 Days of Writing meme. Prompt 9: Transformation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transformation

Becoming human was not easy.

Oh sure, the physical part had been easy, Metatron had made sure of that. It had been excruciating, having his grace ripped away from him with such careless ease, but it had been easy. All he’d had to do was lie back and stay still, not that he’d had much choice in the matter. But becoming human emotionally, spiritually and, most importantly, behaviourally had been more… challenging.

It was easier than it should have been, of course. He had the Winchester’s to thank for that, since their influence had started rubbing off on him a long time prior. And the ever present subconscious of Jimmy Novak had played a part in Castiel’s understanding of human behaviour and emotion prior to Metatron’s deeds.

The former angel always felt a pang of guilt run through him at the thought of Jimmy. After all, if he was just a plain Jane human now, what had happened to Jimmy? Was he still resting relatively peacefully in the back of Castiel’s mind, catching glimpses of the life Castiel was no living in his body? Or had he simply ceased to exist? Had the life of Jimmy Novak been cut short because of an old feud with four archangels who might as well have ceased to exist? After all, Raphael and Gabriel were dead, and Michael and Lucifer were hardly of any concern anymore. Had Castiel and his siblings _really_ deserved to be punished for the actions of their elder siblings?

Questions has buzzed around Castiel’s skull and kept him up late into the night – something he always came to regret the next as he staggered around tiredly. Sleeping had been one of the first changes he had had to adapt to. _Angels don’t sleep_ , he would keep telling himself, as if staying awake long enough and repeating his mantra enough times would somehow restore his grace. It took three days for him to reach his limit and collapse from exhaustion on the floor of the Men of Letters’ bunker.

His trusty old trench coat had been the next thing to change. The idea of wearing different clothes each day, while not a confusing one, was an alien one. And despite understanding why it had to be done, Castiel had still clung to the familiar clothing of his vessel for weeks, until even he had to admit the smell of sweat and use had become too overpowering. They had tried washing them, but they had sustained too much damage. Castiel’s ventures as a hunter in his new human form had earned him his fair share of injuries, and his blood, along with the blood of things they had killed, had seeped too deeply into the fabric to ever really wash out. So, reluctantly, Castiel had thrown them out, adopting the same kind of clothing that the Winchesters wore.

But he had kept the trench coat. He had waited until Sam and Dean had disappeared off to do their own things before salvaging the old coat from the rubbish. He had snuck it back to his room, the blood-soaked fabric dry and crusty against his skin, and he had hung it up with the rest of his clothes. He wasn’t sure why he kept it. He had been through so much in that ratty old coat, and it was as much a part of him as his grace had been. And naturally, he denied any knowledge of the thing if either of the Winchesters asked about it. He had hidden it well enough in his wardrobe that it wouldn’t be found without a little prying, but every now and then he would take it out and just look at it.

The coat served as a reminder of better times - not that the events of said times were particularly enjoyable, but he had been himself back then. He had been an angel, and he had been so eager to learn and to observe and to protect Dean and Sam and Bobby and the rest of humanity. And that coat had been through it all with him. It had been through everything with him. It had been through the war. It had been through the Leviathan. It had been through Purgatory. Honestly, it was the one thing he had left of his old life.

And it was the trench coat that had inspired the nightmares. The first dreams the former angel had were wild and vivid, colourful, enthralling and eminently pleasant. He had dreamt of his childhood, and of the corners of heaven he had seen. He dreamt of the life he had witnessed as he had observed humanity, and of the times he had spent with Sam and Dean. And Meg. God, did he miss Meg.

And so one night, as he fell asleep, the trench coat hanging up where he could see it, he dreamt of Jimmy Novak asking _why_ Castiel had let things happen. Why he was dead and Castiel was still alive, when Jimmy had a family back in Pontiac, Illinois. He dreamt of little Claire Novak asking where her father was. He dreamt of her tears and her anger as he had to tell her Jimmy was dead and it was _all his fault_. But worst of all, he dreamt of Meg. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t sad. She was just… there. And honestly, that was worse than everything else.

Because Meg was the one thing that would have made all this worth it. He was supposed to be her unicorn, and he’d even screwed that up. But the thought of what could have been haunted his dreams. The knowledge that the two of them could have been human together. That they could have spent their single fleeting lives together, and it would have been amazing. The stories they could have made together…

Becoming human wasn’t easy, but Castiel wasn’t giving up.


End file.
